


Burning

by thekingofcarrotflowers



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: BAMF!Dorian, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3782779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekingofcarrotflowers/pseuds/thekingofcarrotflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Iron Bull thought he was going to be bested by a Venatori mage, but Dorian was a BAMF and saved the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JustJasper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/gifts).



> Been writing this for ages since I got the prompt of 'burning' from JustJasper. Finally finished it!  
> Basically, Iron Bull gets hurt and Dorian comes to the rescue.

_Burning._

  
He feels like he is burning from the inside out, a brief wave of pity stirring up for all those unfortunate men that Dorian cackled at as they smoldered into ash before the mage’s eyes. It feels as if the blood in his veins is catching aflame, as if the mass of gray between his horns will melt out of his ear at any moment, as if his bones are already liquefying with the heat. His lungs sing with pain as he tries to take in a shaking breath, instead wheezing helplessly.

  
There’s smoke, and Bull isn’t entirely sure where it’s coming from - from inside him or around him. He yelps when he realizes flames are licking at the fabric of his pants, burning against his shins and thighs. Grimly, he thinks how pleased Dorian will be if his ‘horrible circus tent’ gets burned to nothing. Mind clouded by pain, body burning and about to catch fire, he lets out a bellow, beginning to claw at his burning veins. It’s a desperate act, his thoughts garbled and lost to the pain. Maybe then he’ll get some of the heat out, alleviate some of the bubbling of his veins. He’s going to burn from the inside out and the outside in, an efficient job by the Venatori mage.

  
From far away, he hears Dorian’s voice call his name. It makes it worse, knowing that Dorian is going to have to watch him get burned to a crisp, and he can’t help the scream that escapes his lips in response as the burning chars his throat, presses against his good eye.

  
Then, it stops. The pain is still there, overwhelming and making every inch of his body sing with it. Smoking slightly, Bull collapses to his knees. Trying to focus on the shapes swarming around him, he manages to discern which one is Dorian — a smudge of blue-gray robes, of warm dark skin, of more glittering flames. The now-blood-splattered mage is standing over a crumpled figure, his shoulders heaving with exertion and panic, and his eyes snap to Bull. With a pained grunt, Bull falls forward into the dirt, somewhat relieved that he’s not dead, but almost wishing he was as the remnants of the burning continue to reverberate through his body.

  
“Tiny’s down!” Varric shouts from the raised ground he’s been firing from, and he sounds strained and concerned. It makes him blearily wonder how long he had been burning, if it had only been mere moments that stretched out to feel like an eternity.

  
Through cloudy eyes, he watches Dorian’s boots hurry towards him, the man muttering frantically somewhere above. Taking on a protective stance over the Iron Bull’s prone form, he readies electricity at his fingertips, body buzzing with magic and rage.

  
“Dorian…” Bull breathes, the sound scratchy and raw against his burned throat. He wants to tell the mage to go, to keep himself safe. They’re in the middle of the battlefield, a hoard of Venatori around them. Smack-dab in the middle of ruthless warriors in hulking armor isn’t the place for a mage, and he doesn’t want Dorian to put himself at risk for his account. Sure, Dorian is ruthless in battle, does a great job at splattering their enemies across the countryside, but he alone had made the mistake and now he should have to pay for it, Bull thought darkly.

  
“Save your energy, you idiot,” Dorian hisses as he gestures with an outstretched hand, lighting crashing down around a zealot swinging towards him, the cage pinning them in place. An elaborate brandishing of his staff makes a pillar of fire erupt from the ground beneath the trapped warrior, who screams and writhes, and Bull winces in sympathy.  Arrows cut through the air towards them, Bull distantly recognizing the sound. Dorian flicks his wrist, the wood going up in flames and falling harmlessly in puffs of ash. He’s lucky the mage he had squared off against wasn’t as talented as Dorian, or he wouldn’t have lasted long enough to be saved.

  
Three Venatori rush at Dorian then, two in the barely-there armor of slaves, the other in heavy layers reserved for the biggest brutes the Venatori has to offer. In vain, Bull tries to push himself up, wanting to stand and fight next to Dorian. It only succeeds in making Bull convulse in pain, muscles in his arms giving out under him as he strains against he ground.

  
“ _Stay down_ or I’ll knock you out myself,” Dorian orders sharply, sparing a glance at the fallen man.

  
Dorian picks apart the smaller men first, his expression tight and controlled, the anger making his eyes shine brightly beneath the mask.  Dorian’s usually showy movements are more calculated and precise now, lacking in the flair and grandeur in order to make short work of the approaching foe. A ball of purple light speeds across the battlefield, sent from Dorian’s outstretched palm, and hits one warrior in the chest. He staggers back before returning to his advance, a strange mist now flickering around him. Cold seeps out of Dorian as he twirls his staff on his fingertips before slamming it into the earth, ice then catching at one man’s feet before it overtakes his body and brings him to a standstill. The Necromancy spell takes effect as the man is blasted apart, chest ripping from his body in an explosion of purple magic which shatters his frozen comrade as well. Even with the sizable distance between them and the explosion, blood manages to reach them, splattering warm against Bull’s bare skin and staining Dorian’s gray robes. The largest of the men is still rushing forward, armor having slowed his pace somewhat, but he’s reached a full charge now.

  
“Dorian!” Bull chokes out the warning, thinking that Dorian’s somehow miscalculated.

  
An ax sweeps through the air in front of Dorian in what Bull fears will be a fatal blow. Panicking, he reaches out for Dorian’s ankle, fingers weakly digging into the leather of his boot. Just as the weapon swings down, Dorian sweeps his arms out to his sides and a flaming glyph appears in the air before him in an expertly timed maneuver. The weapon collides with it, making fire spit threateningly in the air between Dorian and the brute, the force of the collision sending the enemy reeling backwards. The glyph burns brighter, a barrage of flames arching through the air and colliding with the Venatori. With frantic screaming, the man begins to melt, armor turning liquid and running down his body, bubbling and mixing with melting skin.

  
Bull thinks blearily about how close he was to that happening to him, and his stomach lurches. He tightens his hold on Dorian’s ankle for a moment, vision wobbling and growing dark around the edges. His grip slacks and his head falls to the earth again, darkness overcoming him.

  
~~~

  
With a dull ache still lingering throughout his body, the Bull slowly pulls himself from the depths of unconsciousness. His vision is fuzzy and unfocused at first as he blinks slowly, examining his surroundings and not quite remembering what last happened. He’s aware of the smell of poultices, thick and pungent, and the heaviness of his body. Slowly, he becomes aware of the sound of turning pages, of a breath that sounds comfortingly familiar. Shifting slightly in his propped up position against the cot, he turns his head just so to look to his side.

  
Dorian’s there, legs crossed at the knee, book in hand. His gaze is still trained on the book, though his eyebrows quirk slightly as he waits for comment from the Bull. With a deep groan, Bull notes the bandages wrapped around the man’s chest beneath a light tunic, the darkness around his eyes, the slightly frazzled mustache, the general look of disarray that was unfamiliar to see on the mage. When the Bull finally tries to speak, it only comes out as a croak. Then, he remembers what happened as his throat began to burn again, raw and uncomfortable.

  
“It was considerate of you to decide to join the living,” Dorian lowers his book to look over at Bull, his guard obviously up to hide the hurt.

  
Bull swallows, trying to get some dampness into his throat, and tries again:

  
“Dorian,” the word feels and sounds like sandpaper, grating and rough, but it seems important to say. The mage falters, mask cracking for a moment to reveal a wave of grief and a wave of relief, before he can school his features again. He sets his book down slowly, leaning forward to look over the Bull’s weak form. His hands stretch out, ghosting over skin, close yet never touching. Bull’s hands twitch, wanting to pull Dorian down into an embrace, but his limps still feel so weak and heavy.

  
“That spell really took a lot out of you. Another moment and-” Dorian trails off, eyebrows knitting as he pictures Bull overtaken by fire, black smoke and crimson flames consuming his body. He reaches for a glass of water as he speaks, “No matter, you are safe now. We did a fair job at patching you up and we should be headed back to Skyhold at daybreak.”

  
Bull manages a pained growl, feeling guilty and weak at being the reason the trip was cut short. Finally, Dorian’s hand makes contact with the Bull’s shoulder, rubbing the spot affectionately and reassuringly.

  
“The Venatori are mostly quashed. Not much work left to do in this endless wilderness. Besides, I’ve had enough fresh air and would rather enjoy catching up on some research,” Dorian says it lightly, and Bull knows its meant to make him feel better, meant to make him feel like it’s not his fault they’re retreating back to Skyhold. Dorian holds out the water to Bull’s lips, “Drink, and then I’ll fetch the healers.”

  
Parched, Bull gulps down the water, and it feels glorious on his burned throat and insides, the right combination of smarting and soothing. Before Dorian stands, he trails is fingers across one of Bull’s horns, smiling gently down at the man. Then, he’s out of the tent, and Bull can hear him speaking distantly to someone.

  
A few moments later, Dorian returns to the tent accompanied by the healer and the Inquisitor. They both look relieved to see the Bull awake.

  
“Gave us quite the scare, Bull,” the Herald admits, a bittersweet smile on their face. They look tired and frazzled after being shaken by Bull’s near-death and then having to hurriedly make arrangements to return to the fortress. Sleep had been a luxury they couldn’t afford of the last few days.

  
The healer moved towards Bull, hands drifting across his body. Green light washed over him, examining the lingering wounds and pressing a little more healing magic into the large man.

  
“You will be fine, but it’ll take some time,” the healer smiles gently.

  
Bull grunts, nodding slightly, “Thanks.”

  
“Potions for the pain and healing and sleep are the best things I can recommend right now.”

  
Before the healer leaves, she has Bull drink down another potion. It tastes bitter and thick, but is better than Stitches concoctions. The healer and the Herald leave after a few more words with Dorian, a tight embrace from the Herald, and Dorian settles down at Bull’s beside again.

  
“’Vint, you look about as good as I feel,” Bull teases as drowsiness creeps up on him. It’s his way of telling the proud man to get some sleep, to take it easy, that everything would be okay.

  
Dorian sniffs proudly, but smiles slightly, “I hardly think you’re well enough for a round of insults with me, Bull.”

  
Still exhausted, sleep quickly pulls at his senses. He falls asleep to Dorian gently speaking to him in Tevene, words rolling of his tongue, gentle hands running over his shoulders, soft lips against his cheek.

 

~~~  
  
The next day, Bull is securely bundled inside a caravan, Dorian tucked against his side. Sleep comes and goes, a bump in the road jerking Bull from potion-induced sleep time and again. Each time he stirs, Dorian’s there, pouring over some book. He notes that it seems to be a different book each time, and distantly wonders how long he’s been fading in and out of consciousness. The mage murmurs things to him that help lull him back to sleep when he notices Bull’s eye flicker towards him, runs a hand against his cheek.

  
When Bull wakes and manages to cling to consciousness for more than a few moments, Dorian’s drooped against him, arm slung across his chest, sleeping deeply. A smile creeps across Bull’s face, relieved to see Dorian still there, glad he’s finally relaxed - or exhausted - enough to sleep.

  
“First time he’s slept in a week, I think,” Varric says suddenly from across the caravan. Bull lifts his head slightly, squinting to make the man out in the darkness. It must be night, and Bull assumes that the Inquisitor is on watch with the soldiers outside.

  
“Been that long?” Bull grumbles, as quiet as he can manage. His voice sounds hoarse and foreign.

  
“Yeah, you were out for … Four, five days? We’ve been traveling for two,” Varric nods slightly. Even in the dim light, Bull notices that Varric doesn’t look that well-rested either. If Dorian’s been constantly at his side, that means more work for the other, longer turns at watch, less sleep.  

  
“Gettin’ close to home,” Bull sighs, thinking of sharing a warm bed with Dorian, thinking of Dorian doting on him in the last stages of recovery.

  
“I don’t think Sparkler here will tell you this, but if it wasn’t for Dorian, you’d be dead ten times over from that day.”

  
“Yeah, saw him save me from that batch of Venatori.”

  
“Yeah, but there was more. Took a lance to the shoulder, sent a lightning up through it to fry the guy,” Varric says it proudly, looking fondly at the sleeping mage, “Never seen anything quite like it, not even with Hawke. And _he_ was a dirty fighter.”

  
Bull’s eye go wide for a moment, gaze flickering over to Dorian. He knows how powerful Dorian is, knows that they haven’t faced a mage who rivals his skill, but it’s not often that he gets to see Dorian at full-force. It’s part of why he grew fond of Dorian in the first place, the way he moved on the battlefield, the power and grace behind each spell, the way he watched out for the others around him during a fight. It still hurts to think of him getting stabbed in the shoulder while protecting the Bull, who should have been fighting side-by-side with the man instead of letting some ‘Vint spellcaster get the best of him. Yet, it stirs feelings of adoration and pride and love in his chest as well.

  
“Also, gives me some more action for the story I’m working on,” Varric says it with a wink, and Bull chuckles slightly. It makes his lungs burn, but the pain helps him remember it’s good to be alive.

  
“Don’t tell him,” Bull warns, having witnessed enough altercations between the dwarf and the mage over literature to know it wouldn’t go over well.

  
“You got it.”

  
They fall quiet, Bull sleepily watching Dorian, Varric scratching at parchment in the glow of a lantern. The pain is ebbing, but it still makes him tired, and the world around him still feels oddly distant. He’s used to noticing every little detail, the rustling on the cloth of his comrades clothing, the direction of the wind, but it all seems too difficult to wrap his head around right now. The next time Bull’s aware he’s awake is when Dorian’s shifting against him, fingers curling and uncurling, face nuzzling against warm silver skin. Bull moves a hand up to Dorian’s head, tangling fingers in his hair. Dorian hums for a moment, trying to find a more comfortable position, before hit sits up abruptly.

  
“ _Bull_ ,” Dorian exhales, relief clear on his face at seeing the man looking at him without a cloud of pain or potions around him.

  
“Sorry I worried you,” Bull mutters.

  
Dorian can’t find the words to express how he feels, so instead, he leans in and presses a kiss to Bull’s forehead, his cheeks, his nose. A rumble of laughter vibrates through Bull. He takes Bull’s face firmly in his hands and kisses him long and slow, savoring every swipe of Bull’s tongue against his lips, grateful to be able to taste Bull’s lips again. When they part, Dorian presses his forehead to Bull’s, their lips nearly touching.

  
“Amatus,” Dorian breathes in the space between them, and it’s the first time Bull hears the word fall from Dorian’s lips. He knows what it means, from the time his spent in Minrathos, from hearing the endearment shared between loved ones on the street. Bull’s chest feels full and warm, a feeling he’s becoming accustomed to the more he’s around Dorian, “Don’t you dare scare me like that again.”

  
Bull chuckles again, squeezing Dorian’s hip reassuringly, “I don’t plan on it, Kadan.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if it ends abruptly! It just felt finished after Dorian said ~the word~


End file.
